“Just love them,'” Nurse Rose said as she took my pressure for the umpteenth time in about 15 minutes.

I looked in the direction she was speaking. An elderly gentleman was lying on a gurney, his back propped up by several pillows. An elderly woman sat at the opposite end. He had been quite vocal since I’d arrived at Kent County Memorial Hospital about a half-hour earlier.

"I'm drying up; it wouldn’t be long before I lose my voice," the man said in a raspy tone.

The woman was sympathetic. She'd had already spoken to the medics and the doctor. "They know what they're doing."

I turned to Rose for an answer. She explained that the man, Peter, had undergone a series of tests, and if they needed to take more, the first tests set a baseline. It made sense to me.

"What about Gatorade? Mary asked. I didn't hear an answer, but it wasn't hard to guess.

“Why do you love them?” I asked Rose.

"They're wonderful,” she said. “I hope to be like them when I'm their age.”

I knew better than to ask more questions. There are laws protecting patient information.

The unit is a big open area with spokes running from the center outward. Doctors collected information where it had been dropped off from labs and other points in the hospital. As one of those docs looked at a clipboard, he sought to verify the patent.

“Are you Peter?”

By the tone of his voice, he expected Peter to be crabby. He had been delivered to the ER about 3 p.m. the day before. His wife, Mary, a spry 94, was with him. He responded affirmatively.

Next was the question about the date of birth. All I heard was 1920. Was this correct? Could he be 104?

I hadn’t expected to be working on a story so soon after returning to Warwick. I had undergone back surgery at New England Baptist Hospital on Oct. 17 and the hospital released me to Saint Elizabeth Home in East Greenwich for rehab. Rather than my taking an ambulance, my son Jack provided the transportation Sunday afternoon after signing a form indemnifying the hospital from any liability should there be an accident.

We made it to Saint Elizabeth by mid-afternoon, and Jack called Carol to inform her I was settling in. In less than a half-hour, she was over with a bag of clothes and items. They and the staff got me settled in by 8 p.m. Jack left to return to Boston and Carol was on her way home. It looked like it would be an uneventful night.

I was wrong.

Saint Elizabeth scheduled a check of vitals, and now I was on the list. A nurse wheeled in a cart to do a blood-pressure test, pulse rate and blood-oxygen test, After the first pressure test, she started asking questions: Was I on blood-pressure medication, was there a history of high blood pressure in the family? 

She had never seen such high pressure.

No one thing jumped out. And, in fact, my pressure has a history of bouncing  around. Was this a case of that? The staff gave it some time, performing multiple tests. When it skyrocketed, they wanted me at a hospital. I picked Kent from the list of three and not soon thereafter five East Greenwich EMTS were ready to take me, lights flashing and the occasional bleep of a siren.

There was no sense of urgency at the Kent ER; rather it was efficiency. I was rapidly transferred from the ambulance gurney to the hospital; these people know what they’re doing. There were questions, and I filled in the blanks where I could. The ER doctor asked about particulars and lined up tests, He checked my charts.

Before making a call, I was asked who they should notify.  Carol was listed as my primary but I knew that without more information the doctors couldn’t tell her much. I gave them Jack’s number. He was reached on his way back to Boston.  He texted me he would he would be there within a half-hour.

Meanwhile, the Peter and Mary show played out. Reports flowed in. Mary told how she had found him on their apartment floor and wisely hadn’t attempted to move him. They expressed their love for each other. Scanning the emergency room, I could tell staff and patients were listening. There was quiet cheering for them. They had been there for more than 12 hours. They confirmed with the doctor.

They would be discharged shortly. The couple was happy to get the news. The same could be said of those who had been following the saga. I wished them well.

“Do I know you?” Mary asked on her way out. She said she believed we had crossed paths. I said I thought it possible, but I doubted it. It wouldn’t have made a difference and yet Mary and Peter had a difference for those in the ER.

We were rooting for them. There was a unity of purpose.

Soon after, an ambulance returned me to St. Elizabeth. My blood pressure was under control. There was no explanation for its sudden spike. Last Thursday I was discharged to home health care, where for the next several weeks I will undergo physical therapy.

 Peter and Mary were an unexpected inspiration.